


Dualities

by execute



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Childhood Memories, Fluff, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, POV First Person, but I don't really mention it, canon typical timeline, typical depressing atmosphere, you can claim incest if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:11:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/execute/pseuds/execute
Summary: Lorian is often content to lie at the foot of my throne, or so he calls it. It is nothing more than a slab of stone that crumbles more every time I look. It means nothing to me. Except, sometimes, by a shift of the stagnant air or a misstep of the undead outside, unceasing in their march, I remember who it was that I was supposed to be.





	Dualities

Time passes. In ages gone I may have said that days march onward, ever forward, but there are no days here. Time is stagnant. The sun hangs low and rotten in the sky, the very heavens rusted by this world’s curse. I remain to watch it, but I do not remain alone.

            Lorian is often content to lie at the foot of my throne, or so he calls it. It is nothing more than a slab of stone that crumbles more every time I look. It means nothing to me. Except, sometimes, by a shift of the stagnant air or a misstep of the undead outside, unceasing in their march, I remember who it was that I was supposed to be. But those memories are crumbling, too, and I let them. Like my title, like my shrinking throne, they mean nothing now. The only worth this seat holds is given by the form that rests at its base.

            Sleep for creatures such as we is a strange thing. Sleep in death is little more than being still. No respite is gained. No escape is possible. I am sure my brother knows this, yet he indulges all the same, slumbering as best he can below me, his breaths utterly uniform because, truly, we have no need to breathe. But the action proves nostalgic for the both of us. I breathe to ward away stray memories of the times when such an action was a struggle. Though the curse remains crippling, it proved worse in life. Each successful breath brings me farther from that time when my lungs liked to disobey and my head pounded from starvation. Lorian, though, breathes because he is the warrior of us. Even I know that such mastery begins long before one even grasps a sword. His prowess was bred on menial things dreams of glory rarely contain—when we were young, he had trouble breathing. Not as much trouble as I, no, not nearly, but for a boy as impatient as he was, the meditation exercises of his instructors were torture. He had told me so himself, shifting his weight from leg to leg at the threshold of my chambers when my strength was so slight I could not walk from my bed to him. Yes, I remember how he looked, freshly bathed, his cheeks still red from exertion. He always folded his hands behind him, sickeningly polite. He always saw me as a king though my mirrors proclaimed me a monster.

            “Hello,” he had said and bowed at the waist. He waited for my permission to enter. I did not always grant it. Sometimes his energy was too much for me. Sometimes the light in his eyes only made my darkness darker. But that time, I know, I waved him in and set my reading aside. And, like each time I motioned him near, he smiled in the way only a youth can, unfettered by thoughts of the future, the inevitable decline of all we held dear. It used to be very difficult to remember we were the same age.

            He had paused at my bedside, eyes roaming the edge in his signature princely trepidation. He bit his lip and said, “Lothric, may I sit?”

            “Thou ask each time,” I had countered. “And ’tis needless. If I do not what thee, I shall say so.” That, of course, brought on another smile brighter than the sun that slithered past my heavy curtains and fell in ever-retreating lines upon the floor. I think I frowned in response.

            “What art thou reading?”

            “Something from the archives.”

            “Oh,” Lorian said. He ducked his head, his gaze following the trail of carpet ‘round my bed. He shuffled to the edge and perched there, rigid and shy, consumed with the thought of causing me discomfort. After a moment of silence, he asked, “It is not too taxing for thee, is it?”

            “Taxing?”

            “Well, thou needst thy rest and I…” Lorian twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. It was long then, not nearly as long as it is now, but as a child Father had made sure it was short. Lorian was a son, a _true_ son. By the next visit or perhaps the one after that, Lorian would return with his hair cut high above his ears, all unruly strands reduced to a spiky, blonde-white ridge. I much prefer it the length it is now. It rests like moonlight on his shoulders, or, curled up as he is, a silver puddle that licks the hem of my black robe.

            “I could read it to thee, if thou wish me to.”

            My fingers had picked at the worn cover, real albeit faint amusement coloring my words.

            “It is a book of sorceries, Lorian. I do not think t’would be a good idea to read it aloud.”

            “I see.” The blush that followed darkened his already red cheeks and I had reached out and gripped his chin; I turned his face toward mine.

            “Why art thou so flushed?”

            “Training,” Lorian responded. I poked him with a claw the way another might with a blunt finger. Lorian was the only one who did not fear them—fear me. I succeeded in my prodding and he continued. “I cannot, ah, well. Some of the new arts are difficult and I find myself breathless. ’Tis no worry, really.”

            Of course I had worried. I knew the sensation of drowning in air better than any other.

            “Have thou practiced thy meditation lately?”

            “It is difficult.”

            “Doing nothing is difficult?”

            “Yes, yes it is! I cannot fathom how Father thinks I can just sit, fully still, fully empty.”

            I had paused then, to test a theory. With no immediate reply, Lorian had sat in silence, hands folded, unmoving, in his lap. The sun crawled a little farther across the floor.

            “There,” I said. “Thou have just done it.”

            “What? I have done what?”

            “Remained still and in silence.”

            The look Lorian had given me—that I shall not forget. Even if this age wears on and our corpses decay to ash, every mote of my once-body shall remember that look.

            “Is… ’cause ’m ’th… ’ee,” he mumbled.

            “Speak up, Lorian.”

            “It is only because I am with thee.”

            The memory fragments there. I can trace its parts like a trail that branches off to many varied clearings. That was the conversation which sparked Lorian’s desire to read to me, to force me to stomach his stuttering storytelling voice and poor taste in unrealistic novels. But somewhere along the way, his voice grew smoother and the plotlines more manageable. Or perhaps it was just him, his presence, which grew to something I cherished.

            It was also through the novels that I developed an adoration of the sea. To my young mind, so accustomed to stone and gilding, to draperies and stairs, the immense openness of the ocean quenched a thirst I had long been developing—a desire to know that there was more than I would ever know. The way of flame and light and heat would become mine. It was my birthright and a death sentence all in one. Any secrets held in fire I was sure I would one day receive, revealed in everlasting agony. But the ocean—water—offered me another story, a foil to the grandeur of flame, one I would never know. And I longed for it because of that.

            I cannot say when Lorian learned this. I cannot say if it was a slip of my own tongue or an expression on my face when he read to me of the sea. But I do remember the night he slipped into my chambers, sticking to the wall like an assassin, the quietness of his steps a measure of his growing talent with the blade.

I have been a light sleeper my entire life. When my doors creaked open to let him slink past, my eyes opened to the darkness of the night and to fear. It was only from habit that I called out, “Lorian?”

“Shh! Lothric, be quiet. I have something for thee.”

“Thou have… why art thou here?”

“Because I have something to _show_ thee.” Lorian appeared at my bedside, dressed in his night clothes. A blanket was tucked under his arm and his eyes nearly glowed with excitement when he leaned into the moonlight. “Come on, we must be quick. I do not know how long it shall last.”

“Oh, brother. What is it?”

“Thou shall see soon enough. Now, come.” He set the blanket at the foot of my bed and motioned with his hands as if that might draw me from my covers.

“Lorian,” I had said. “I-I cannot walk.”

“Then I will carry thee.”

“W-what?”

Yes, Lorian sat on the bed, his back to me. He said, “Just wrap thine arms about my neck. I will carry thee. Thou weigh not a thing.”

It was true. The curse kept my body wasted, fragile. My hesitation was not from being a physical burden—was this the extent of my existence? To have to resort to riding my own brother when my legs ceased to work and I could not shift in my own bed without losing my breath? The realization had been painful, then. But it was Lorian’s stubbornness which made me acquiesce; he remained motionless until I sighed and threw back my covers. Then, he helped me. He lifted me closer to the edge and helped me position my arms around him. He made sure my grip was strong, that I was comfortable, before he stood and took me with him. He grabbed the folded blanket he had brought and walked effortlessly to the door while I buried my face in his neck in utter shame. Somehow, he was able to dispel that, too.

That night was the first night I had “walked” the halls in what seemed like eternity; I know now what an eternity is, but that spell of being bedridden is still equal, in my mind, to the time I spend on this throne, waiting for the end of the world. Back then, I still had the luxury of pretending that fate was far off.

Lorian carried me all through the castle, to all the places he thought I might appreciate. And then, for the finale, we took an elevator up and up, farther up than I had ever been, and exited into a narrow servant’s hall. My shoulders brushed the walls but Lorian continued onward. The experience was dreamlike—I did not dare to speak in case it was all a dream and I would again wake in my bed, helpless and alone.

“Lothric, bow thy head.”

At the far end of the hall was a single wooden door. Lorian pulled a key from a hidden pocket and opened it. He shuffled us both through, and I had been sure, in that moment, that I was dreaming.

“Look, Lothric, it’s—”

“It is raining,” I finished. I smiled. It _was_ raining. It was raining in a slant, the wind cool and damp against my skin. The water thundered against the roof tiles and ran in small streams farther down than my sight went. It poured off the small awning above us, gracing us with mist and noise.

“Here, Lothric.” Lorian kneeled down and deposited me just under the awning, close enough that I could reach out and touch the streams, which I did. He closed the door and returned to my side, while I studied the rivulets steadily dripping down my arm. So fascinated was I that I had barely realized he had tucked the blanket around me until I felt him shift away. I turned to him and reached out to pull him back.

“Art thou cold?” is what he asked.

“Thank thee. Lorian, truly, this is magnificent.”

“I, well.” Lorian laughed a gentle, shy laugh. “I know how much thee wish to see the ocean. I thought of taking thee, but surely Father would notice such a lengthy absence.”

“I am sure he would.” I had returned his laugh. It was the first laugh I remember with clarity and Lorian had turned his face to me, his eyes wide and pink cheeks shiny with the rain.

“Thou ought to do that more often,” he said. And, sitting with him high upon our castle’s wall, I had agreed.

 

Thus, my time is spent in the past. I muse upon memories that I cherish more than any kinghood. I revel in the small happiness my brother has brought to me and those he continues to bring me. I had once thought that if my sacrifice meant even another day to my beloved Lorian, I could go willingly. But fate dictated otherwise and Lorian’s choices, though they have bought us more time than I had ever imagined, also removed the prospect of his salvation. For that I bear no guilt. His choices were his alone; my choices were mine, alone.

I look to him now, resting at my feet, ever protective of that which he loved enough to sacrifice himself. I know now that, if presented with the same choice, I would lay down my life for him.

Perhaps such thoughts are more than mere thoughts, for the sounds of fighting echo from outside. Immediately Lorian is alert, his hand gripping his sword in such fervor that my heart swells and I think I may cry for the first time in millennia. He turns to me and I turn to him and we know what the sounds mean. His lips curve into a smile—he has been bored lately. I smile back and even from the depths of my hood I know he sees it.

Lorian slinks to his alcove and I sit straighter on my throne. I think of him, sitting with me in the rain, his eyes bright and so very alive. I vow to remove that helmet of his, once this undead contender is vanquished. I vow to look into those eyes and do what I did not dare all those centuries ago. A smile curves my lips.

The doors creak open and a figure strides into view.

“Oh dear,” I say. “Another dogged contender…”

**Author's Note:**

> Yo... I made myself cry writing this. I hope it makes you cry too because goddamn, I'm normally stone cold but Lorian and Lothric's story, like, damn.
> 
> Anywho, any typos are mine. I claim them; you cannot have them, no matter how hard you beg. If you liked this, please leave a kudos and a comment (I loooooove~ comments).   
> Oh and thanks for reading!~


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